As I write this, emails continue to ping into my inbox offering the band I play with a dazzling array of festival gigs.

Some are great, others get deleted straight away. And occasionally we’ll get an offer that I keep hold of, just so the lads and I can have a good giggle.

Take for instance the promoter who recently asked: “How would you like to come and play at my festival?” and continued with that famous phrase “there’s no money”.

In his scrumpy-addled mind the following sentence might have clinched it: “We can offer you a bap filled with homemade apple sauce.”

Better still, I read the following, spellbound. “You might also get the opportunity to have a go on our jousting horse.”

The site of our 55-year-old drummer rocking back and forth on a medieval jousting horse would be enough to keep me amused for at least five minutes.

Bear in mind they haven’t promised he can have a go on the horse – at this stage it’s only an opportunity.

We continue to play plenty of festivals where we’re well looked after. But for every outstanding promoter there’s an outstanding charlatan.

Sometimes they’re well-meaning and just a tad misguided, like the chap who recently offered to remunerate us for our petrol with “a night of chilling out”.

But most often they’ll be in the business of lining their own pockets. It’s a problem that has recently been highlighted by the Musicians’ Union campaign Work Not Play, encouraging musicians to report the worst offenders.

Because it’s not always fun. I’ve seen strong, proud men broken in the wasteland of festival campsites.

I’ve witnessed levels of filth in festival toilets that have astounded me.

At Boomtown Festival in Hampshire, where we’ve played for the past two years, someone hung themselves in the loo. I can think of few more tragic ways to go.

I had an entirely selfish reason for wanting to play Boomtown – Chas and Dave were on the bill and I’ve wanted to see them for years. But the lads weren’t convinced.

Our bass player fumed: “I see no point in playing to bored teenagers who will only be watching us because they’re too stoned to walk to the bar”. He had a point, the gig was ugly. After a four-hour wait for artist transport to take our equipment off site one of my bandmates compared the scene to news footage of refugees fleeing Gaza.

So when you hear your favourite local band are playing a festival, don’t think of Kanye at Glastonbury.

Think of the fungus on the Women’s Institute tea tent, where they’ll be performing in front of half a dozen damp students.